


Arcturus

by paox



Category: Rooster Teeth/Achievement Hunter RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe - Grand Theft Auto Setting, Elemental!Jack, FAHC, Fake AH Crew, Gen, Hybrid!Gavin, Hybrids, Minor Character Death, Multi, Pyrokinetic!Michael, Revolution, Super-Strength!Jeremy, demon!Geoff, gifted AU, immortal!Ryan, lots of angst bc i mean have you read my fics before
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-04-15
Updated: 2018-05-05
Packaged: 2019-04-23 08:38:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 15,139
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14328696
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/paox/pseuds/paox
Summary: In another universe, the FAHC might have been united, but here, the Los Santos Seven each work alone. However, they're all connected by one terrible secret - and when one of their number is horrifically murdered, the remaining six are pulled together into a mess of violence, corruption and rebellion. Everything is changing, and the six of them are right in the middle of it all, but they are not alone in the fight against the whole world that has turned against them - even at war, they have allies. Every day it becomes harder just to survive, but can they find a family along the way?





	1. One Down

**Author's Note:**

> hey so apparently i cant stick to one wip for one fucking second lmao  
> enjoy you fucks!

****The morning after a heist is like the morning after sex, except ten times better. Gavin wakes up tingly inside, hair sticking up everywhere, and there are hundred-dollar bills in his bedsheets and he can see a dark bruise on his right side, jutting out over his bony hip. He feels a fuzzy kind of alive as he lies there, grinning up at the ceiling in a bed that costs more than most houses, and that flash of guilt and contemplation and _what happens now?_ that is meant to hit when you know you’re at the top - like in all the crime-action movies - doesn’t hit. Lying here, everything is perfect.

May life always be like this.

It takes a while but Gavin drags himself up, finally, and the spell wears down a little bit, fading to a faint golden glow at the edge of his consciousness. He forgot to unwrap his wings last night and they’re aching, sore from a night of being squashed up against his back. Gavin decides, fuck it, and leaves them wrapped up. No point in giving himself the luxury of comfort now. He can unwrap them tonight.

So that’s how it starts - the brilliant feeling fades, but doesn’t disappear, and Gavin pulls on his sleekest shirt and pants and the most expensive pair of sunglasses in Los Santos. They’re heavy on the bridge of his nose, cold metal pressed against his skin, and Gavin relishes in the feeling as he picks at a little bit of muck - blood or soot or dirt, from a previous heist - on the inside of one of the lenses. Sunlight is dripping through the curtains onto his gold bedroom walls, bright and hopeful and crisp.

So Gavin’s day starts well. He pockets his phone (doesn’t bother to check the dozen news alerts on the home screen because seriously, who reads the news anymore?) and slips into the kitchen. There’s a champagne bottle tipped over on the counter in a puddle of the rose-gold liquid that shines in the sunlight as it spills down over the side, and last night comes back to him in flashes - a meeting with a group of hired goons in a warehouse, the first explosions, barrelling through the doors of the bank and shooting his pistol at the ceiling as a warning, smoke intoxicating in his lungs, the afterglow of adrenaline as he left it all in the dust with a bag of cash spilling out in his lap as he sped away. A smooth heist, gone down without a hitch. Gavin feels he has a right to be proud. That doesn't happen often, after all.

Los Santos is something supernatural in the early morning. The sun is rising over the city and Gavin stares out of the vast windows for a while, watching his city wake up. His apartment looks out over everything, the view stretching out and out and out over the whole city, and the bronze shine of sunrise catches on the glass, sharp and bright, in contrast to the early-morning mist that shrouds the buildings far below. Sipping what’s left of the champagne from the bottle, Gavin watches it for a while. There are a few more bills in his pocket, and they feel hot against his skin.

So maybe that’s how it starts; the hot swoop of post-heist warmth and the glow of the champagne in his stomach and the bright, brilliant sunlight seem to numb the pain of his scrunched-up wings, pushing it to the back of his mind. The floor is spotless tile, marble flecked with gold, perfectly clean even after years of bloodstains and bullet shells and booze. Gavin is happy, for a while, to stand there. Not much of his life is peaceful but this, he thinks, is good.

Then, it shatters.

There’s a buzzing, a vibration against his thigh. Rolling his eyes - though he is curious, not many people have his personal number - Gavin fishes out his phone and raises an eyebrow at the caller ID. He can’t remember the last time _he_ called him, of all people.

After a moment, cautious but interested, he answers and says, “Hello?”

“BrownMan’s dead,” Geoff says.

For a moment, Gavin doesn’t process it. He goes perfectly still, the champagne bottle cold against his palm and, for a moment, forgets to breathe.

“...What?”

A sharp sigh. “I said, dipshit, BrownMan’s dead. They killed him. They found out.”

The champagne bottle falls, shatters on the spotless tile, and the last dregs of it splash out over Gavin’s expensive shoes. He makes himself take a deep breath, then another. “Was it the GEB?”

“We think so. It was meant to be a clean kill. Kid put up a fight, though.” Geoff sighs, and there’s a sound like he’s rubbing his face with his hand. “We’re meeting tonight. Going to hash out a plan; we can’t risk this, the chances are that if they knew about him, they’re going to know about us soon too, and then we’re fucking dead.”

“You told the others?”

“Yeah. ‘Cept our resident shitface - he isn’t answering his phone. Can you get him to come?”

“I…” Gavin leans against the counter, still in shock, mind whirling. _They found him. They’re going to find us. They_ **_know._ ** “Yeah, I can try. I know where he’s been hiding out recently.”

“Good.” Geoff pauses, like he’s going to say something, and then gives up on it. “Just… be there. This is serious.”

“I know that, Kingpin.”

Geoff hangs up. Gavin lets his phone drop, the sound of it clattering down onto the counter ringing in the resounding silence. There’s a whirling pain growing in his stomach, churning and multiplying with each passing second. A pain he hasn’t felt in years, it seems. But now it’s back and it’s stronger than ever and Gavin has no idea what he’s supposed to do now.

He could leave the city, he supposes. Get out of here while he still can. Surely now that they’ve taken down BrownMan, they’ll connect the dots to the rest of them? The sniper’s Gift wasn’t even that obvious, not like Geoff’s or the Vagabond’s or Patillo’s or Gavin’s own. It must have taken a lot more digging to uncover him than it would to take any of the rest of them down. It’ll only be a matter of time before they come after him, too, Gavin is sure of it. Maybe it’s the old paranoia, but some instinct in him is desperate to run, like an itch has ignited beneath his skin that he can’t scratch.

Running away to America was meant to be the end of being hunted, of being scared. Apparently, Gavin thinks with a sigh, it was only the beginning.

* * *

Michael wakes up slowly, face pressed against a pillow, and it smells like booze and sweat and mistakes. There’s sunlight on his face, stale and rusty and too hot, and he shifts irritably, not willing to open his eyes, everything aching. His pistol, tucked into his belt, has slipped - the end is jabbing into his stomach, hard and uncomfortable. The air smells like beer, and somewhere nearby, the television is looping the same few bars of the bouncy theme of a video game menu over and over.

Fumbling for the remote on the floor with one outstretched arm, Michael points it in the vague direction of the noise and jabs at the buttons with his thumb until the sound dies and everything is quiet in the apartment. Outside, of course, the city is deafening, loud with the wailing of sirens and the hustle and bustle of thousands of people crammed into one tiny living space. Michael can hear the odd gunshot every now and again, a few screams once in a while, or maybe he’s just so used to all of that that it’s gotten into his head and he can’t get it out.

Michael throws his arm over his eyes, blocking the intrusive sunlight from his face, and the realisation hits him slowly, settling onto his chest like a ten-tonne weight. Ray didn’t turn up _again_ last night. They were meant to have a night of beer and video games and bitching about Ramsey and Free and all the rest of the Los Santos Seven and having fun for once. It’s been so long since Ray’s been able to hang out with Michael like they used to before all this. He’s been so… _distant_ recently, like the two of them are suddenly just as estranged as the rest of the Seven, and Michael wouldn’t be ashamed to admit that he misses him. This is the fourth or fifth time he’s been left here, waiting for Ray to turn up to game night only to wake up the next morning, hungover and alone.

 _Goddamnitt, Ray,_ Michael thinks. _Whatever mess you’ve gotten yourself into recently, you’d better make it out of it alive._ He misses game night.

The background noise of the city seems to swell after a while, growing as the morning wanes on, and Michael lies there for an indefinite amount of time, trying to decide between going back to sleep and getting up to drown himself in painkillers. His headache probably warrants it but he can’t make himself move, not for a long time, eyes heavy and body heavier. There’s a sour feeling in the back of his mouth - the taste of sleep and beer sticking to his soft palette, cloying and clinging and sticky - and his skin feels dry and itchy and it’s at times like this that Michael can almost forget that he’s _Mogar_ , one of the most famous criminals in the country, and he can begin to feel human again, in a strange kind of way that is neither uncomfortable nor comforting.

It doesn’t last long.

There’s suddenly a knocking - insistent and annoying - on the front door, and somebody ringing the doorbell over and over and over in a loud, unbroken _ding-ding-ding-ding-ding_ and Michael groans into his hands, ready to pull his hair out in frustration. He doubts it’s the cops - it’ll be a while until they discover _this_ safehouse, since it’s relatively new - and Ray always comes in through the window. That leaves a long list of assholes Michael owes money to, or any number of hotshot gang leaders trying to hire him, or (god forbid) one of the Seven, in all their assholiness. Michael isn’t keen to see any of the aforementioned people, and he considers staying here until they leave, willing to wait it out, but-

_Ding-ding-ding-ding-ding-ding-ding-_

“Ugh, goddamnitt, shut up! I’m coming!”

Of course, they don’t shut up, and Michael make a point of scowling harshly as he drags himself off the couch and clips his suppressors onto his wrists and ankles, their cold metal sapping the warmth from his skin almost immediately. He trips over empty beer bottles and xbox controllers and disk cases scattered across the floor as he crosses the room, which is dimly lit anyway, with only a little sunlight slipping through a crack in the curtains and casting dust fairies through the air and making a sliver of the red couch look pale and bright with light among the dullness of the rest of the room.

Michael is still tugging on a shirt even as he approaches the door, yanking his pistol out with jerky, irritable movements. He probably shouldn’t risk confronting fifty cops on his doorstep in his slightly inebriated state, but right now, he doesn’t care. He fumbles with the key and flicks off the safety on his gun even as he swings the door open, sunlight flooding in and momentarily blinding him (and holy fuck, when did the apartment get so dark? He really is living like a hermit). Michael blinks the blue dots out of his eyes and squints, waiting for his vision to clear, ready to fire at any second.

Standing on his doormat, however, isn’t a cop. It isn’t a random gang member either, or anybody Michael owes money to, or anybody who might have been sent to kill him. It isn’t even Ramsey or Patillo or anybody responsible, checking in to make sure he’s still alive.

The motherfucking _Golden Boy,_ cocky pisshead that he is, looks… well, he barely looks like the Golden Boy at all. A boy, sure, but the gold about him - that intoxicating, charismatic shine about him that drags people in, the glitz and the glamour that gave him his name - is gone. He looks shell-shocked, like somebody has just punched him in the mouth, and that sly smile is nowhere to be seen and a feeling of foreboding and nerve and almost-concern grows in Michael, so quick and intense that he almost forgets to be rude.

Almost.

“What the fuck are you doing here? Not the best time, asshole.”

The Golden Boy sighs, and it’s the first thing Michael’s ever seen him do that seems even remotely sincere. His tanned skin catches the light and his blonde hair is perfectly messy just like always, a controlled chaos, just the right amount of untidy.

“Can I come in, Michael?”

Michael holds the fuck up there, hand tightening on his pistol. “How the fuck do you know my name?”

“I’ve known since we all first started meeting - it’s not that hard to figure out, if you know who to ask - look, Michael… this is important. Please.”

Michael glances around, up and down the hall of the apartment block, paranoid. This guy might seem sincere but the Golden Boy is a good liar, a great one. “Look, if this is one of your stupid jokes or something-”

“Something happened,” the Golden Boy rushes out. “The Kingpin wanted me to explain it. We’re meeting tonight, all of us. You weren’t answering your phone.”

“Shit,” Michael mutters under his breath. Then, “Fine. Come in, asshole.”

Standing in his grimy, rundown safehouse, the Golden Boy looks about has out of place as one would expect (with his gold sunglasses and gold shoes and pressed shirt and skinny jeans a perfect fit on his long legs, the smarmy prick) but he doesn’t seem to notice how shitty the place is. Michael figures he’s been in worst places. He leads his visitor through to the kitchen - which is a mess too, though not as bad as the living room - and they sit on either sides of the table, quiet for a while, neither knowing where to start. The Golden Boy picks at a hangnail with his finger. Michael crosses his arms and tries not to yawn or sneeze or do something stupid like that.

Eventually, he can’t take it anymore. “Okay, can you tell me why the fuck you’re here now? I’m waiting.”

A long breath in, followed by a long breath out. “I… bloody hell, it’s a tough thing to say, Michael.”

“Spit it out, then.” Michael frowns pointedly. “And while you’re at it, if you know my name, you better tell me yours. I don’t want to keep calling you that full fucking moniker.”

“I’m… I’m David,” the Golden Boy eventually says, and he’s a good enough liar that Michael takes that with a hefty pinch of salt, because really, he could say anything and make it sound convincing. _Yeah, sure, asshole_. “And… it’s about BrownMan.”

“Ray?” The name slips out without his permission, and he doesn’t care. “What about him? Did something happen?”

“Michael… I don’t really know how to tell you this, but-”

There’s a moment of surreality. The world slows down and Michael is suddenly, immediately sure of exactly what has happened and something in his chest breaks and goes hollow. ‘David’ doesn’t even need to say it, because right then and there he knows exactly what has happened and it hits him with the numbing, absolute blow of a freight train.

“He’s dead, isn’t he?”

It’s hard to force the words out, and harder still to watch David nod solemnly, and it feels like something has closed around Michael’s throat like a vice, choking him out, hot and constricting. He manages to keep from moving, blinks back the hot sting in the back of his eyes and stares at the table and tries to process it.

“And this isn’t a joke?” he manages, after a while.

David shakes his head. “I wouldn’t joke about this. And… Geoff reckons he knows what this means. They know about us. The GEB were the ones who killed him, he reckons, and… you know what that means-”

Michael bolts up, and his chair skids back and crashes to the floor and he leers over David, anger suddenly pulsing through him, overheating the suppressors and the haze of beer and the grief and everything else pressing down on him.

“That’s what you’re here for? That’s what you’re worried about?! _Ray’s dead!_ Who gives a shit about any of that right now?!”

David stands up too, and he still looks far from his usual self but there’s a gold handgun leveled with Michael’s eyes and they stand like that for a split second, in a standstill, each ready to shoot at the slightest movement. Then, David’s other hand flies up and he snatches Michael’s pistol by the barrel, batting it away from them and to the floor, and it skids across the room and hits the floor but Michael doesn’t back down, not even without a weapon and held at gunpoint. The anger is overpowering, streaming through his very being like magma, and he can’t hold back the flames aching to be released-

“Michael, you’re smoking-”

Michael blinks, stumbles back a step. The fabric on his shoulders is smouldering and curling and there’s smoke curling up from his skin, even with the suppressors locked onto him, and David doesn’t look _scared_ but he certainly seems ready to run. Michael focuses all his energy into pushing down his Gift, trying to keep it under wraps, and for a while he can forget about the anger and the grief and everything else. He takes deep breaths and they stand there in silence for a while as the smoke begins to fade and disperse, and the anger seeps back in but it’s colder this time, more sedate.

Finally, David says, “I’m sorry about Brow- Ray. I’m sorry about Ray. But you need to be there tonight - we can talk it out then, plan something to get his body back from the cops, I don’t know. Can you just be there?”

Michael sighs. “I’ll be there. Tell Kingpin he’d better get me some fucking good alcohol.”

“Roger.”

David begins to back out, slipping his gun back into the waistband of his pants, and Michael catches a flash of gold feathers as his shirt rides up. Then he’s leaving, stepping over clothes and guns and junk strewn across the floor. Michael follows him, still feeling horribly numb, like somebody has vacuumed out his insides. Neither of them speaks. It feels like it’s all happened too fast, and Michael can barely begin to process this and everything that it means.

At the door, David turns back to Michael and says in a low voice, “Don’t tell the others… but my name’s Gavin, actually.”

Michael can’t even muster the energy to raise an eyebrow. “And you’re telling me this why?”

Gavin shrugs. “Felt like it. I feel like we’re going to be meeting with the Seven a lot more from now on-” He realises his mistake. “Bugger me. Six. Los Santos Six. Doesn’t have the same ring to it.”

Michael sighs. All he wants to do is go back to the couch and drink himself into oblivion, or sleep, or just try to lie there and process all of this. The loss of Ray like a throbbing wound - the pain comes in pulses, insistent and scorching, and all he wants is for this asshole to leave.

Gavin seems to get the message, and gets out of there _quick._ Michael doesn’t bother to watch him go - he slams the door in his face and then stands there, with no idea what to do now, loss churning his his chest and it’s… it hurts. Bad. Worse than the aftermath of any fight and worse than the cold sting of the suppressors and worse than any pain he’s ever had to feel before.

Michael sits down on the couch, drops his head into his hands and doesn’t move again for a long time. The loss of Ray - and everything that means - hits him hard, over and over, a constant stream of _fuckfuckfuckfuck_ . Ray has been Michael’s friend (Michael’s _only_ friend, really) for years now, since they were teens getting into trouble with the law and running from the cops. It’s hard to imagine him dead, hard to imagine him just ceasing to exist. A tiny, stupid fucking part of Michael wants him to come swinging through the window with his DS and to laugh and shake his head and say ‘don’t worry, that asshole must have been kidding, I’m fine!’

But he doesn’t.

Michael’s insides shrivel up even more as the truth of it all hits him - if Ray was really killed because the GEB figured it out, then their secret is out in the open. Nobody’s ever really known about Michael’s part in it all - except for the Seven, but they’re so wrapped up in it that they would never tell a soul. The thought of being discovered… it would scare him, but right now Michael just feels numb, grief too heavy to allow for anything else.

 _Fucking hell, Ray,_ he thinks. _I might be joining you soon, the way things are going._

* * *

The Kingpin’s base is - somehow, incredibly - a place that is close to familiar by now. It’s about ten times bigger than Jeremy’s own (which can hardly be called a base, really), stretching up and up and up into the sky, far too much space for one man. However, it’s practical: intimidating and functional, it serves its purpose, and Jeremy would guess that the Golden Boy’s apartment is ten times more lavish, judging by his personality.

The lady at the front desk (and Jeremy will never get over the fact that the Kingpin has a fucking _receptionist)_ glances up as he walks in, and then looks back down, obviously expecting him. They both know the drill by now. Jeremy strides past her and to the elevator, hitting the seventh floor button, and there’s no elevator music as the doors shut and, seamlessly, it begins to shoot upwards.

The inside of the elevator is mirrored on all sides, even on the ceiling, and the floor is black marble. Everything here is slick and shiny but simple, dark and minimal in the way you would imagine a supervillain’s base to be - and in a way, that’s accurate. Jeremy catches his own eye in the mirror and feels his lips twitch at how ridiculous he really looks. The cowboy hat, as well as the purple blazer and the obnoxiously bright yellow t-shirt and the leather fingerless gloves… it all comes together to make him look bright and bold and absolutely stupid. But he can pull it off. He’s been Rimmy Tim for over a year now, after all. You get used to it.

A _year_. It doesn’t feel like that long. And it’s been almost eight months since the Kingpin first got in contact with him and asked him to meet with them - the rest of the Los Santos Seven, who Jeremy had only recently been dubbed a member of at the time - and it’s been a rollercoaster from there. Finding out that six others in this city were living with the shit he was living with, running from the secret he was running from, should have been comforting. Especially considering how much he looked up to them.

In all honesty, it was more scary than comforting.

Because honestly, in Jeremy’s defence, it seemed pretty crazy at first. The six biggest criminals in the country all happening to have the exact same _little problem_ as him, and approaching him to join their little club? It had seemed impossible, completely insane, until Mogar had set his hair on fire from across the room with a flick of his wrist and the Kingpin had taken out his colour contacts to reveal eyes that were the glowing scarlet of hot coals. After that, it had been a little bit easier to believe, but even now, there’s something surreal about pulling up in front of the _Kingpin’s_ base and strolling in like he owns the place to meet up with the six most high-profile criminals around.

Five. Five, now. Jeremy has to keep reminding himself that as of last night, one of their number is dead.

They were hardly close. Hell, the only connection he had to BrownMan was that they would meet once a month or so to complain about GEBs on their asses and laugh about stupid times when their secrets had nearly been discovered (which happens a _lot_ for Jeremy, unsurprisingly). They weren’t friends, not by a longshot - like the rest of their strange little group, they would stay out of each other’s way. Sure, all of them might have a strange, unspoken alliance, but nobody brings it up and it never really comes into play. In Los Santos, it’s every man for himself, even with the Los Santos Seven and their unusual little arrangement.

Still, Jeremy can’t deny that it stings to lose BrownMan. Not only in a _‘wow, this might mean we’re all going to die now’_ way, but with the low, dull ache that comes with losing an ally, a symbol that he wasn’t alone. BrownMan was guarded, sure (Jeremy never even knew his name) but he was approachable, with his faded sweatshirts and scuffed sneakers and torn-up jeans, with a bright pink sniper rifle slung over his shoulder. He always seemed more human than the others, almost. Jeremy had liked him, and looked up to him. And now he’s dead.

The elevator doors open. The room is familiar - a long, dark-plated suite, lined with leather couches with a large, alcohol-stocked island in the centre of it all - and there are only two others here so far. Patillo doesn’t look up from her book as he walks in, legs tucked up under her as she sits in one of the armchairs and looks altogether worn out. The Vagabond appears as foreboding as he always does, leaning against the back wall with his arms crossed. His skull mask catches the light, and Jeremy can see that a potted plant is withering away near where he stands, curling and going grey and flaking apart.

Nodding tensely at the Vagabond (because _fuck,_ that guy gives him the creeps), Jeremy goes to sit on another couch and holds himself as still as he can, trying to seem casual, straining to catch any noise from the rest of the huge base. One wall of the low, sprawling lounge is completely glass, looking out over the city, which is a blur of neon lights and the huge, looming masses of buildings and the blinking lights of car headlights far below. Skyscrapers surround them, dark and colossal and pressing in like old, gargantuan gods, and each emits a patchwork of light from lit or unlit windows that streams down and pools at the base of the sheet of glass.

Nobody speaks for a while.

After what feels like hours, the elevator doors open again. Jeremy tilts his head to catch a glimpse of who it is from under the brim of his hat just as Mogar strides past, fists clenched, whole body screaming irritation and anger even more than usual. He throws himself down across from Jeremy and doesn’t attempt to greet him or any of the others. There’s a bandana tied around the bottom half of his face, brown eyes narrowed fiercely above it, and those weird metal bands are still clamped around his wrists as always. There’s a gun in his jacket too, Jeremy can see it, though he knows the guy doesn’t need it.

If anything, the whole situation grows ten times more awkward now. Jeremy starts picking at a loose thread at the bottom of his blazer but when he glances up, he notices the Vagabond staring at him, and stops immediately, trying not to flush red. There’s a clock ticking on the wall nearby, black with thin, silver markings, and it ticks past another three minutes before the doors open yet again and in comes the Golden Boy, fancy shoes tapping on the hardwood floor, hands in his pockets.

The Golden Boy, of course, moves with the same lazy, loping grace as always, toeing the line between casual and controlled, seeming completely relaxed and yet somehow totally alert. He’s wearing his gold-rimmed sunglasses, just like every other time Jeremy has seen him, except this time isn’t like the others at all. There’s no casual teasing or jibes, no sly jokes or friendly banter or comfortableness. The Golden Boy doesn’t even meet Jeremy with his usual friendly, joking greeting _(‘Timmy Rim! Hey, look, I think you grew a bit’)._ Everything is still. The newcomer takes his usual place, sitting up on the island in the middle of the room and crossing his legs, and nobody speaks. BrownMan’s absence is clear and striking.

And then finally, what feels like hours later, the Kingpin arrives. He’s late to his own party but honestly, Jeremy can’t remember a time when he wasn’t. The elevator chimes and he strides out like he’s just left a business meeting, straightening his suit and walking with confidence and purpose, but when Jeremy glances up at his face, he looks just like always - tired eyes, a funny moustache, stubble. An expression that is somewhere between sympathetic and apathetic. He wouldn’t seem all that threatening if Jeremy didn’t know who he was.

All eyes turn to him, and Jeremy shifts in his seat. Even the Golden Boy seems to sit to attention a little. The Kingpin clears his throat, and then leans back against the island, leg bumping up against a bottle of whiskey on the shelf.

He crosses his arms and then says, flatly, “We’re all fucked.”

Nobody replies. Usually there would be a sarcastic reply maybe, or a laugh, or a question. But the absence of BrownMan - and what that means - seems to have gotten everybody on edge.

The Kingpin rolls his eyes. “Though I guess you dickheads already guessed that.”

“I had some idea,” Jeremy says, and nobody looks at him like he’s done something wrong so he continues, “Since they got him. They’ll figure us out soon enough.”

“Of course they will,” the Kingpin sighs. “Game’s up, boys. We’re all screwed now.”

There’s a tense moment of silence and then Mogar, face contorting, says, “Is that it?”

“Uh, yeah? There’s nothing we can do, kid.”

“Seriously?! You called us all here just to tell us we’re all fucked?!” Mogar stands up, and- fuck, a few sparks jump from the tip of his finger, scattering across the floor, and it takes everything in Jeremy not to flinch back. “We all thought you had a plan, or something! You can’t just leave us in this shithole-”

“What do you expect me to do!” the Kingpin throw his arms up in frustration, and he looks more exhausted than ever. “I doubt I’m going to survive this mess, how the hell would I be able to save all of your asses?!”

“I thought we started meeting like this for a reason.” Mogar glances around at each of them, meets their eyes, and when he meets Jeremy’s, he does his best to stare back without flinching. “What’s the use of this stupid fucking arrangement if it doesn’t do anything to keep us safe? I thought that was what all this was for!”

“He’s right,” Patillo speaks up suddenly, and everybody turns to her. She looks tired too. “What was the point of all this if all it comes down to is giving up? I don’t know about you, Kingpin, but I’ve been running from the GEB my whole life. Everybody in this room has, probably. We can’t just give up.”

The Kingpin rubs his eyes tiredly. “You idiots- the second they find out - and trust me, they will - they’re going to bring hell down on us. All of us. So unless you’re willing to pack up your shit and get the hell out of dodge-”

He cuts himself off and nobody says anything, and Jeremy knows that none of them (not even him) are willing to give up this city. None of them are going to run.

Mogar paces angrily, storming away from Kingpin and then whirling back around to face him. “Well, it’s pretty rich coming from you, to expect us all to give up and die when they come for us. Aren’t you immortal or some shit? All three of you?”

Kingpin frowns. “It’s not like that-”

“Like hell it’s not!” There’s a hand on his shoulder and- holy _shit,_ Mogar is touching his shoulder, standing beside him like an ally, and Jeremy nearly has a fucking aneurysm right then and there. “What about us? Me and Rimmy Tim and the winged asshat? Just because you know you’ll make it out alive doesn’t mean you get to fucking take it lying down, not when our asses are on the line.”

“Like hell I don’t!”

“He has a point.” The Golden Boy slides down off the island, hands in his pockets, and wanders over to stand beside Mogar. “All three of us are going to die. And, what was it you told us when you were trying to get us to join your little club? _‘You’re one of us, we need to stick with our own, keep each other safe. We’re all Gifted, we need to make sure nobody figures it out’._ Kinda implied that we were going to stick together, y’know.”

Jeremy finally manages to gather the sense of presence to stand up too, and he nods, facing the Kingpin with Mogar’s hand still on his shoulder. “They’re right. What’s all this for if we’re not even going to try to fight?”

The Kingpin shoots him a withering look and Jeremy shuts his big, fat mouth _fast._

The only one who hasn’t said anything yet is the Vagabond, and the Kingpin turns to address him, frustration obvious in every inch of him. “Look, you have to agree with me here! Fighting the GEB is just asking to be detained for the rest of fucking eternity! We can’t do anything here - unless you’re planning to take off, you’re all fucking screwed, and so am I. It’s over! Please say you see that!”

The Vagabond stares at him for a long moment, the soulless black pits of his skull mask dark and deep. Then his head turns to look at each of them individually - Patillo and then Jeremy, Mogar and the Golden Boy, the three of them standing together across the room.

Finally, he says, “We could fight the GEB.”

There’s a stunned silence for a moment and then the Kingpin buries his face in his hands and groans. “You can’t be fucking serious! Vagabond, what the fuck could we even _do?!_ We’ve got Mogar - a pyrokinetic, sure. Great. But then we have a fucking bird hybrid who can’t even fly-” (the Golden Boy looks hurt at this-) “Some asshole with super-strength who can’t even control it-” (and wow, now Jeremy feels hurt-) “An immortal who can control fucking _daffodils,_ me, and you. We’re hardly a fucking dream team! And that’s not to mention the fact that nobody has a clue what the fuck your powers are.”

The Vagabond stares for a moment, more - and god, he’s so fucking creepy, what the _fuck_ \- and then shrugs.

The gesture is so casual for somebody like him that Jeremy almost laughs.

“I mean, we could put up a fight.” He says it in a simple way, like you would when explaining a math problem. “There are two possible results - either we fight and risk death or capture, but we also cause enough of a stir that the GEB has a lot of trouble to deal with and we can get out unscathed, or we sit here and do nothing and they kill those three, and the three of us live out the rest of eternity buried in concrete or flown out and dumped on the moon or whatever they can think of to get rid of us. It’s a simple choice, really-”

“No, fuck this-” The Kingpin seems to have had enough. “Fuck all of this. All of you fuckers get the hell out of my house. We’re not fighting the GEB - we’re keeping our heads low and staying the fuck out of it, alright? End of.”

Jeremy steps forwards. “But-”

“No, kid. Don’t fucking test me-” And as the Kingpin turns around, his eyes are glowing bright red through the colour contacts, and that’s when Jeremy knows that they need to _get the fuck out._

He, Mogar and the Golden Boy leave together - the ride down in the elevator is silent, and Mogar is shaking with anger and his eyes look darker than Jeremy has ever seen them and that’s when it hits him - he was close with Brownman. Must have been his friend. Jeremy feels like he should say something, but can’t think of anything, so he leaves it.

The three of them cross through the reception together and then they’re out on the street, in the darkness, shadowed by the Kingpin’s huge base. They stand there for a moment and Jeremy wants to ask, _what the fuck do we do now_ but he’s sure one of the other two is going to beat him to it. Nobody speaks for a handful of seconds. Cars roar past on the road and Jeremy steals a glance at his companions - Mogar’s bandana has slipped a little, and Jeremy can see his freckles in the light of a streetlamp. The Golden Boy’s shades catch the light and he’s looking right at Jeremy, and Jeremy meets his gaze solidly.

And then, just like that, all three of them break apart, stepping back from their little circle, and the comradery - the sense of unity from back there - trickles away. Like a spooked cat, Mogar takes off down an alleyway and melts into the shadows, gone so abruptly that Jeremy stares after him for a moment, and the Golden Boy sighs.

“Cheers,” he says, something hopeless in it. “Have a feeling this might be our last meeting. If we make it out of this… I hope I see you again sometime, Timmy Rim.”

Jeremy sighs and wipes a hand over his face. “Do I even need to correct you anymore?”

“No,” the Golden Boy says, and he slaps Jeremy on the shoulder and then-

And then he’s gone.

Jeremy stands there alone for what might be a minute or ten. Then, he turns around and starts to walk back to his apartment, scuffing at the pavement with the toe of his boot, just as the rain starts pouring down. His cowboy hat feels heavy on his head and the thrill of it is gone, the bravado, the excitement. It all washes away with the rain and Jeremy feels numb, something cold settling beneath his skin.

_We really are all fucked._


	2. Trouble

**** When Geoff said they were all screwed, he meant it. But four months pass quickly, and shit doesn’t hit the fan as quickly as he had expected.

BrownMan stays dead, of course, and it’s still just as crushing a reality as it was all those weeks ago. Geoff had liked the kid, really, had admired his skills and hoped to work with him someday. Ironically, he admires him even more now that he’s dead - he obviously knew how to cover his tracks, how to keep his connections a secret even after death. The remaining six of them are still at large. The GEB haven’t caught up with them just yet, and Geoff is thankful for that, because he knows that when they do, none of them stand a chance. 

They haven’t had a meeting since that night, of course. They left on bad terms and Geoff knows now that there’s no point to doing this anymore, no point in pretending that they can fight against the legion who were trained just to kill them. 

When Geoff first started their little thing… he remembers it well. He was still clawing his way up through the city at the time, fighting tooth and nail to get to the top, creating allies and enemies and living every day as though it’s his last at the same time as he prepared to take the throne of Los Santos, vicious and bloodthirsty and willing to kill to get to where he needed to be. He met Patillo first, hiring her for a job - because damn if she wasn’t the best heist strategist in the whole city, and everybody knew it. 

And from the very beginning, Geoff thinks, he knew. She turned up with most of her skin covered completely, all gloves and long sleeves, thick cargo pants and a balaclava with a hole cut out for her mouth. Geoff couldn’t see her hair - that was covered with a hood too - but her eyes were deep brown, rich like the earth, and she never stepped too close and Geoff knew from the very beginning that Patillo had more to hide than any normal criminal, even one trying to keep their identity under wrapped. 

_ She’s like you, _ his instincts had whispered,  _ she’s Gifted. _

And Geoff had listened to them. 

It had taken a long time for Patillo to start to trust him, of course. It had taken a long time for  _ him  _ to trust  _ her. _ Both of them were used to running, used to keeping their Gifts hidden from the world and desperately trying to keep their heads down and their identities secret. It had been that way for Geoff for centuries, after all, for as long as he can remember. He had no doubt that Patillo was used to the running and the hiding and the fear too, so it took a long time before they were comfortable enough to meet up and show their faces and just talk about it all - about the struggles of hiding powers and immortality for hundreds of years, about the fear that comes with the strengthening of the GEB, about everything that they couldn’t talk about with anybody else in the world, it had seemed. It was just the two of them, back then, alone with only one another to rely on when it came to keeping their Gifts hidden and their heads below the radar of the GEB.

And they became friends, just like that.

Four years later, two things haven’t changed: Geoff still doesn’t know Patillo’s first name, and her powers are still cool as shit. Concerning the former… well, he tries to guess every time they run into one another (god, he must have had a thousand guesses by now) and he gets it wrong every time.He’s seen her face, at least, but mistrust is thick and ingrained and hard to shift when you’ve been running for centuries, so he can’t blame her for not wanting to disclose  _ everything  _ about herself. 

Concerning the latter - well, you can’t blame Geoff for thinking he got the short straw when it came to Gifts. Sure, being a demon  _ sounds  _ badass, but it’s not nearly as cool as what Patillo can do without even thinking about it. It’s a pain to put in contacts every day, and though Geoff’s demonistic traits do have their perks (sometimes pain manipulation comes in handy, et cetera), at times, he kind of wishes he could give Patillo’s powers a spin. It would be cool as  _ dicks  _ to coat the whole city in green, to blow out all the windows in Police Headquarters with ivy vines and venus flytraps. 

Patillo, of course, never does any of that. She keeps her powers well and truly hidden except when it’s just her and Geoff, and Geoff laughs at her when leaves sprout in her red hair and flowers bloom from under her sleeves. 

It didn’t take long for others to arrive after Patillo, of course. The two of them were having one of their little meetings once when Patillo pulled out an article to show him - something about an up-and-coming criminal burning down three of a rival gang’s bases at once, something that should have been impossible for one person without the kind of tech somebody like Geoff had. Geoff asked her what was important about it and she looked into his eyes and said, “He’s like us. I know he is.”

And then they had a pyrokinetic in their little arrangement. Mogar - or Michael, as Geoff later figured out he was called, though to this day he doesn’t ever call him that - was a firecracker both literally and in terms of personality. He was angry and mistrustful and just a little bit scared; of the GEB, of them, even of himself. Finding out you have a Gift is a terrifying experience, not that Geoff really remembers it. Michael didn’t ever grow as close to him as Patillo did, but he was an ally, and he would come and meet with them every once in a while and the three would have something like a group therapy session over bottles of booze, complaining about how annoying Gifts can be sometimes or laughing about muck-ups in their own individual heists and just being… well, not friends exactly, but comrades, Geoff likes to think. 

Then came BrownMan. He was Michael’s friend, a sniper with enhanced vision who wore glasses for the irony of it, and he was young and scruffy and too chilled out for his own good. After that was the Golden Boy, who was a little harder to weed out (finding out that somebody has a Gift when that Gift is wings and they constantly hide them is hard), but was friendly and said stupid stuff with a stupid accent and, though he obviously kept them all at arm’s length, fitted into their strange little group dynamic well. 

(Eventually, Geoff forgot what the whole thing was even for. It was an excuse to have something of a security blanket, something like a group of friends, of people you know you can almost trust. It stopped being about protection after a while, really. BrownMan used to joke about how they were a secret society.)

The last ones were the Vagabond and Rimmy Tim, who arrived at about the same time, the former a few weeks before the former. The Vagabond… well, even now he’s fucking terrifying, and he gives Geoff the creeps to this day. Nobody really knew what his power was when he first arrived, and nobody ever found out, but Geoff knows for sure that the Vagabond is three things: immortal, silent and powerful.  _ Very  _ powerful. More powerful than perhaps all of them, his instincts tell him. Jack’s flowers wither and rot whenever he’s in the room and he never really talks much, just stares through the hollow eyes of his skull mask. He’s creepy as dicks - such goes without saying - and outside of meetings, Geoff tries to stay out of his way and he stays out of Geoff’s.

Rimmy Tim was less scary by far. He’s just a kid, really (early twenties, if that) with hair that changed colour every time they saw him, and when the Golden Boy first smiled at him, he looked like his head was going to explode. His Gift is enhanced strength (and when Geoff says enhanced, he  _ means _ enhanced) and he doesn’t touch any of them, actively avoids it in fact, and nobody really asks why because the answer should be obvious after that one tape is released of the guy crushing a policeman’s skull with his pinky finger.

And for a while, everything was good. The seven of them were the most well-known crooks in the whole city (the Los Santos Seven, they called them, and Geoff liked how it sounds) and though they weren’t working together, they had each other’s back, standing in unspoken alliance, tied together by the one secret they all shared. 

Until now. 

Because BrownMan is dead. The GEB knew - they found out, and they killed him - and everybody is scattered to the winds, and there’s a strange tension in the city because all six of its rulers are waiting for something to slip, for something they know is coming. 

To their credit, nobody has left. The Golden Boy is still around, stealing whatever shiny shit happens to take his fancy and pissing off cops, and Mogar and Rimmy Tim seem to be taking more and more jobs together all the time - people have even started to call them a duo. Patillo is still around too, though she’s not causing much of a stir, probably being cautious. And the Vagabond is still just as silent and domineering as always, his presence hanging over the city like a dark cloud, his name said in hushed voices in back alleys. 

And all of them are waiting, just waiting, for something to give. 

It isn’t until four months after Brownman’s death that it finally does. 

Geoff is half asleep, sitting against his headboard with a book in his lap, when the alarm goes off. If he was a less confident criminal, that would have alarmed him, but it doesn’t. Instead, he sighs and laments the one night when he thought he could get a bit of peace, before dragging himself up and throwing on his suit. Better to look presentable in front of the cops or a rival gang or whoever happens to be trying to break into his building. 

(Ironically, he wonders if this is finally the GEB coming after him. It’s about time, really.)

The ride down in the elevator seems to take too long and not long enough - Geoff rubs his eyes tiredly, tries to smooth his hair back into some semblance of tidiness and when the elevator doors slide open smoothly, the cold of the basement hits him in a rush that makes him shiver. He can tell right away that whoever tried to get in when they weren’t supposed to has been captured - there are three guards standing, hands on their guns, beside one of the metal cell doors along the wall. Inside the cell, Geoff can hear somebody yelling faintly, slamming their hands against the door. 

One of the guards steps forwards. “Boss-”

“Who was it?” Geoff straightens his suit, striding towards them. “Were they alone?”

“Yes, as far as we can tell.” The guard shifts uneasily. “We think we know who it is - apologies for acting so quickly, boss, but you didn’t tell us you were having a… meeting tonight, and when he turned up looking like he’d just gotten away from half the bureau-”

Geoff’s blood runs cold. “What?”

Then, suddenly, from inside the cell, there’s a loud bang - like somebody has just thrown their entire weight against the door - and then a yelp of pain. “Hello? Somebody? Anybody?! I’m kind of bleeding a lot in here… like, properly bleeding… Hello?!”

Geoff sighs, long and low, because he would recognise that stupid British accent anywhere. 

“Golden Boy?” 

“Kingpin!” He sounds cheerful but strained. “Mind getting me out of here? Didn’t mean to startle your guards.”

“Why were you even at my base?” Geoff asks. 

“Well, I kind of… well, I got myself into a bit of a mess, I... “

Geoff gestures for one of the guards to unlock the door. The man punches the code into the keypad and then the door slides open - and there’s the Golden Boy, clutching his shoulder, blood on his face and in his hair. His shirt is ripped and there’s a deep gash across his hip that looks like it either came from a hairline graze from a bullet or some kind of blade. His wings are out too, limp and crumpled at his sides, like the arms of a puppet with no strings.

Altogether, he looks like he’s dragged through hell backwards, and he’s bleeding all over Geoff’s floor. 

“What the fuck happened to you?!”

“Bit of a- a long story, actually-” the Golden Boy says breathlessly, and then he passes out.

* * *

After a few months of working with Mogar, Jeremy learns two very important things: that his name is Michael Vincent Jones, and that he isn’t nearly as intimidating as he seems. 

Right now, in fact, he seems almost cute in comparison to the spitfire that is Mogar. They’re playing Halo and Jeremy watches Michael react to being fucked over for the fifth time this session. The change in the man’s face is comical as his mouth drops open and ‘MLP MICHAEL WAS KILLED’ flashes across the screen, and Jeremy bursts out laughing. 

“No! What the hell?!” Michael roars. “Lil J, why?! Why the fuck would you do that?!”

“Because it’s funny,” Jeremy answers, and he tries to run around in victory circles but he’s laughing too hard to defend himself when Michael grabs his controller and hurls it across the room in a fit of rage.

“Why are you like this, Jeremy? Why?!”

Jeremy laughs harder, and though he would never admit it, Michael is laughing too, and they both fall back onto the couch, Jeremy grinning as Michael’s fingers spark with the beginnings of flame. Michael notices and curses - even with the suppressors on his wrists and ankles, sometimes his fire manages to escape a little, in sparks or smoke or little snuffed-out patches of ember on his skin. 

It’s hard to believe that this Michael is the same Michael that Jeremy sees on heists - the same Michael who sets fire to anything and everything he can reach, who shoots cops in the head with no hesitation, who laughs wildly and shoots into the blur flashing lights of cop cars behind them as they roar away into the night on Jeremy’s purple and orange bike. Four months ago, Jeremy wouldn’t have believed they were even the same person. 

Michael grabs his controller. “Fuck this, let’s play something else. Trials or some shit.”

“How about G-Mod-”

“Fuck no!” Michael burrows back into the couch cushions, a bottle of beer between his knees. “You’ll beat my ass at that too, you’re the G-Mod guy. Jeremy the G-Mod guy.”

Jeremy laughs, picking his way across Michael’s living room to pick up his controller. “Okay, fair enough, pal. Let’s play Trials.”

It’s been like this for a while. 

After that disastrous meeting, after BrownMan’s death and the ominous realisation that they are likely to all die in the same way, the two of them… gravitated together, almost. It started when Jeremy ran into Michael on a heist and they ended up hiding out in a warehouse, patching each other up. Then they ended up running into one another again, and this time, they went back to Michael’s apartment and sharing a beer as the post-heist adrenaline seeped away. After that it had kept happening and kept happening until eventually, they were going out on jobs together and helping one another regularly, which led to video-game nights and staying at one another’s apartment a few nights each week. 

And if Jeremy is completely honest, he’s glad for it. Really glad for it. It was terrifying to know that the GEB were coming and for a while, without the security provided by the Kingpin’s meetings and that strange alliance with the Seven, Jeremy had felt more alone than ever before. But Michael is great - reckless and hotheaded and ridiculous, sure, but great. And it’s great to know that even when somebody does come for them, they won’t be alone. And who knows - maybe the Kingpin was wrong, maybe they can get out of this. 

But for now, they’re just keeping their powers on the down-low, of course. The GEB haven’t busted them yet, and a tiny part of Jeremy is hopeful that they never will, that things can stay like this. 

But, of course, they don’t. 

About three minutes into their game of Trials, Jeremy’s phone goes off. He sighs and puts the game on pause, ignoring Michael’s indignant yelp, and answers- “Hello?”

It’s Trevor, Jeremy’s informant, and that in itself tells Jeremy that something is very wrong. “Thought you should know, since you’re buddies or something. The Golden Boy’s been attacked. And nobody knows where he is.”

Jeremy’s blood runs cold. “By another gang? The police?”

“No, it doesn’t look like it- shit, I’m being told his apartment is a fucking mess- we think he got away, though. It doesn’t look like it was the police. Apparently somebody saw a few unmarked SUVs headed away from his place half an hour ago.”

“Do you know anything else? Can you keep looking into it?”

Trevor seems to detect something in his voice. “Is this something to do with you? Jeremy-”

“It could be,” is what Jeremy settles on. “Look, Trev… please just keep looking into it?”

“Alright, fine. I’ll let you know if anything else crops up.” Trevor pauses. “Look, I don’t know what your weird arrangement is, but are you planning on letting the rest of the Six know?”

Jeremy thinks about his answer, because even though he trusts Trevor, he knows that the man is an informant to more than one person, and that he’s probably willing to give up any information if it gets him a hefty sum. “I’ll tell Mogar. The others can find out for themselves. Most of them probably already know anyway.”

“Alright…”

“Thanks, Treyco.”

Trevor hangs up. Jeremy lowers the phone from his ear and meets Michael’s curious gaze, feeling grim. 

“Gavin’s been attacked. Nobody knows where he is.”

Michael curses, stands up and then sits back down. Then he swears again and says, “Fucking hell. Do they know who did it?”

“No, and that’s the bad thing. Trev reckons they saw a few unmarked cars driving away from his place a while ago. They know it’s not the police - probably not the feds, as far as I know Gavin isn’t caught up with them - and it doesn’t look like it could be another gang. I think it’s them, Michael.”

“Fuck!” Michael rubs his temples. “And he got away?”

“Yeah. They lost track of him, I think - which means he’s probably headed to a safehouse, or maybe to meet up with one of the Six, since they’re the only ones who would understand the situation. But, now that I think about it… it makes sense that he’d be the first they went after. They wouldn’t come after one of us, not when we’re working together now, and like hell would they try to take down the Kingpin or Patillo first, seeing as they’re both monsters. And I mean, the Vagabond’s a shadow…”

The two of them lapse into uncomfortable, grim silence. The reality of it is sinking in all over again. For a while, it had seemed almost as though they could get away, almost like it wasn’t really going to happen. Now, that brief flash of hope is gone. 

“Let’s stay here for a while, today,” Michael decides. “He knows where I live. Might come to us for help, if he’s hurt.”

“Alright,” agrees Jeremy. Then, “Shit, Michael. It’s really happening.”

“Yeah. They’re bound to know we’re in on it all too, soon.” Michael laughs hollowly, dropping his head into his hands. “Reckon this is our last chance to ditch this city. You up for it?”

“Nah, no way in hell. And I doubt you are either.”

“Yeah.” Michael is quiet for a moment. “Yeah, let’s stay here. We can fight when the time comes.”

“Yeah.”

Nobody speaks for a long while. It feels as though a dark, heavy veil has been draped over all happiness in the room, snuffing it out like a flame. Eventually, Michael gets up to grab the first aid kit from the bathroom, just in case Gavin stops by. Jeremy knows his name because for some reason, the guy had actually thought it was a good idea to tell it to Michael, for reasons Jeremy can’t really comprehend. 

But it doesn’t matter now. Not when the Golden Boy is down, and BrownMan is dead and the rest of them are closer to dead than ever before. 

Jeremy sits there, listening to Michael moving around and just thinking about it all, for longer than he’d like to admit. 

* * *

Ryan comes in as the sky is starting to lighten, creeping closer towards dawn, grey streaks snaking across the clouds that hang low over the city. The adrenaline is seeping away now, draining out of him and leaving that cold, shivery feeling beneath his skin, like an itch you can’t scratch. The whole world is dulled by that funny melancholy that comes after a job, after the rush has faded and the cash feels heavy in his rucksack. So much money, and not enough places to use it - because what’s the use of all this?

(Ryan has been asking himself this for a while, of course, and he has yet to find an answer.)

But certain things change people. After living for thousands of years, a creature is bound to find some kind routine and stick to it, if nothing for the fact that it keeps it alive. Ryan is a creature of habit and even though by now, he knows that life could be more than this… it’s hard to move on from it. Hard to imagine having to stop living like this. Hard to imagine leaving this city behind until he has to.

Inside his apartment, Ryan drops the rucksack on the couch, and it lands with a dull thump. He doesn’t turn the lights on, knowing their brightness will make his eyes sting. For a moment, he stands there in the dull light, looking at the gradually lightening sky outside the window and wondering vaguely how long this life will last, how long he’ll be stuck in this particular routine before it too is ripped away from him. 

Because no matter what the Kingpin says, Ryan knows that this isn’t the end of the world. Life will go on - it always does. Life after life after life. 

It’s been this way for a long time. 

It’s at this point that Ryan realises that his mind is a mess, even more than usual, and decides to sleep. A long time without resting often results in too many big questions and the increasing morbidity of his thoughts, to the point where sleep becomes impossible and the whole cycle repeats. And honestly, tonight? Ryan doesn’t feel like submitting to his insomnia, so he forces himself to stumble through to his room and collapses on the bed, sprawled out, still in his heist clothes. 

WIth a heavy sigh, Ryan reaches up to pull the skull mask off and tosses it to the floor, face feeling hot. It’s stuffy inside the mask, especially when you’re sweating and breathing heavily and running around on a job. It feels like a sweet release of tension to peel it off, in more ways than one. 

Ryan feels himself drifting off, finally, body aching and thrumming with the last strings of energy. As he fades into sleep, he finds himself wondering what the rest of them are doing. Whether the Golden Boy has unbound his wings yet. Whether Mogar still has that fire in his eyes that burns just as hot as his power. Whether they’re all okay - whether they’re alive. 

He hopes they are, Ryan realises, and then sleep closes in and the whole world goes dark. 


	3. The Lads

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> wdfjksgjskg thank you for all the comments! they mean so so much <3

**** When Gavin wakes up, the first thing he sees is darkness - sweet, merciful darkness. His eyes are stinging and he’s thankful for the blackness, even though he knows that it’s going to fade soon. 

When the dark blotches finally fade out of his vision, dripping away like wet paint, Gavin glances around, tries to make sense of his surroundings. He’s on a bed, soft but firm - medical - in a room with white walls and harsh fluorescent lighting. There are no windows, so he can’t tell what time it is, and for a moment he’s so horribly disorientated that he can’t even remember how he got himself here, or where he is. His head is a complete mess and for a moment he lies there, trying to strain his memory to remember what happened.

Then, all in a rush, it hits him. Waking up in the middle of a post-heist nap to the alarm blaring, and gunfire. Checking the security feeds - a rush of panic and adrenaline, pulse thumping in his head - and seeing his guards gunned down by a handful of men in dark suits. The thrill of pure horror that came with the recognition; that these men must be GEB, that they’re finally coming for him, that he has no way out. The door to his room banging open; a frantic exchange of gunfire, and a ringing in his ears and pain. Clambering out of the window and scaling down and then falling, falling, falling-

After that, everything is dark, though Gavin vaguely remembers a dark, concrete cell, and the feeling of throwing himself against the door, and the hot, sticky sensation of blood beneath his shirt. Then, nothing. 

So he figures they finally got him, and that this must really be their headquarters, or some kind of containment facility. Lying there, a dull wash of grief hits him, fuzzy and painful. It’s really over. They got him. They haven’t killed him yet, but Gavin has no delusions - they won’t try to let him go, he won’t even get a trial for whatever crime he’s committed. He’ll be stuck here until he dies, unable to stop them experimenting on him or cutting off his wings or making an example of him to anybody else they can tie down and rip apart-

Somewhere to his left, a door clicks open. Gavin struggles to turn his head, neck aching, and the last person he would have expected to see swims into his wobbling vision. 

The Kingpin - or Geoff Ramsey, as Gavin is pretty sure he’s actually called - stands over him, wearing a t-shirt and sweats. The abruptly casual appearance in comparison to how he usually looks, always wearing a suit and tie, is so jarring that Gavin thinks he might be hallucinating. He has tattoo sleeves, and he looks tired, tireder than Gavin has ever seen him. 

“You’re finally awake?”

Gavin nods, and even that hurts a little. “Yeah. What- what happened? Where am I?”

“I’d have thought you’d remember.” Geoff crosses his tattooed arms over his chest. “You’re the one who dragged yourself here in the middle of the night, covered in blood.”

The rest of it comes back to Gavin in tiny flashes now: the GEB, all dark eyes and business suits and black, unmarked vans parked in a legion in front of his base. The feeling of gripping the handlebars of his motorbike tight, roaring away from the gunfire, the wind in his hair. The sun glinting off the tall windows of the Kingpin’s base. Guards. A struggle. A cell. The Kingpin’s confused face. Darkness. 

“Bollocks,” Gavin whispers. 

“Yeah. Bollocks.” Geoff nets his fingers, then cracks his knuckles. “That’s what I thought.”

There’s a long, heavy silence for a second. All of Gavin hurts, his brain fuzzy with it, and for one bizarre moment, he thinks Geoff is going to pull out a gun and shoot him between the eyes. What a stupid way to end. To make an escape from the bloody  _ GEB, _ only to get shot by the guy you escaped to. 

Eventually, Geoff sighs and plops down in a plastic chair beside the bed. “The whole city’s going nuts. Everybody knows it was you who got attacked. And since you’re doing a few things for different gangs right now, everybody’s pointing the finger, trying to pin the blame on each other. Nobody knows what the fuck is going on - except the rest of the Six, maybe. You really caused a stir, kid “

Gavin is sure his brain is messed up now, because there’s a huge disconnect between the Kingpin he knows and this guy -  _ Geoff  _ \- who is wearing a worn t-shirt and has a tattoo of a sea monster on the back of his right hand and just called him ‘kid’. It feels like they’re almost completely different people. And there’s so much else to process too, so much that he feels like his mind almost can’t process it all - the GEB, the escape, what all of this must mean. 

“It was them,” Gavin says, throat dry. “The GEB. Snuck into my base, took down my guards.”

“How’d you get out?”

Gavin knows that his tongue is loose with the drugs that must be pumping through him right now - he recognises the sensation of heavy painkillers - but doesn’t have the energy to worry about it. 

“Jumped out of the window. Rest is a blur… I think I managed to lose them at some point. Got to your place after that.”

Geoff looks at him for a while, just watches him with something hard in his tired blue eyes. “Why mine? I know you’re not on bad terms with Mogar or Rim. You could have easily gone to them.”

Gavin snorts, letting his head roll back onto the pillow. “Wanted to stay alive, didn’t I? Not like they’d bloody be able to protect me, not like this place.”

“Your faith in me is heartwarming,” Geoff says, not smiling. 

Feeling abruptly uncomfortable, Gavin tries to raise himself off the bed, but barely manages to shift a few inches when the stabbing pain in his ribs and back becomes too much and he has to sink back down again, panting, face screwed up. He manages to squint at Geoff through watering eyes and sees the man shake his head, like Gavin is the biggest idiot in the world.

“You fuckin’ moron.” Geoff sighs. “You really got fucked up. Three broken ribs, dislocated shoulder, a few bullet wounds - only grazes, though. Your back’s torn up too, and there’s something broken in your wings, but none of my guys know shit about wing bones, so we just wrapped them.”

A thrill of fear rushes through Gavin, ingrained in him from when he was very young - the fear that comes with discovery, with his wings being on display. Even with the logical knowledge that Geoff has just as much to hide as he does, and that they’re allies and they’re meant to be working together in this, it’s still a cold shock - like ice flooding through his veins - to think of strangers seeing his wings, touching them and tending to them, while he wasn’t even awake to stop them. 

Still; logically, Gavin knows that if it wasn’t for Geoff, he would be dead right now. 

“Thank you,” Gavin says awkwardly. “Y’know. You could have just left me out there. But you didn’t. So, uh, Kingpin-”

“Call me by my name, asshole.” Geoff scoffs. “I know you know it. Best information gatherer in the whole damn city. You probably even know Patillo’s, right?”

“Hers is the only one I haven’t figured out,” Gavin says, “Well, her and the Vagabond. Mogar and Rimmy Tim have pretty boring real names, let me tell you - I bet the Vagabond has the most dull name ever, like Steve or something, like something your neighbour would have. I’ll find out someday! There’s nothing I can’t figure out if I want to.”

“Big words for somebody who can’t even stand up.”

“Don’t need to be able to stand up to use a computer, do I? And plus, I’ll be up and about and out of your hair in no time, Geoffery, don’t worry. I heal quick.”

Geoff raises an eyebrow. “Not according to what my guys are saying. Apparently they got you pretty good - there was something bad in those bullets. You didn’t get properly shot, only clipped, but it’s not pretty. No matter how quick you heal, maybe you should get comfortable, kid.”

Gavin’s heart sinks. “Why help me then? If it’s going to take so long.”

Geoff looks at him for a long moment. “I mean… I’m not a complete prick, Jesus.”

“Well, yeah, but we’re not exactly friends.”

Geoff sighs. “The whole… well, the seven of us meeting was meant to be about protection, right? So if the GEB ever came for one of us, we knew people who could give us refuge.”

“Yeah. Didn’t bloody work out.”

“I noticed.” Geoff picks at a loose thread hanging from the hem of his t-shirt. “Well, I… might have thought about the argument with Mogar, and I don’t know - maybe we can’t fight them, I still think that, but maybe I was a  _ bit  _ of a prick when I told you all to get lost. I mean, birds of a feather flock together or some shit, right? Maybe we should… kind of… help each other…”

He trails off awkwardly. Gavin feels a grin spread across his face despite the bruises. “Seriously?!”

“Don’t get any crazy ideas!” Geoff says quickly. “I’m not saying we all need to band together and go launch a fucking attack on GEB headquarters and form some fucking Gifted army, or whatever big ideas Mogar had. No way in hell. You three would die, I’d probably get sent back to Hell, Patillo would- I don’t know, turn into a tree or some shit- and Ryan would probably blow up the whole goddamn planet, and that ends well for none of us. We can’t fight the GEB, Golden Boy. They’re trained by the best fighters in the world, given the best weapons, just in order to take us down. If we even tried? We’d all be screwed. Fucked. Bent over a table and assfucked.”

Gavin feels his face fall. “But-”

“No buts! We’re not fighting the GEB. No way. They would crush us - none of you have any idea how powerful they are.” Geoff hesitates. “However…  _ maybe  _ I can try to help you assholes until they rumble us, sure, and that’s what I’m planning to do. So you’re staying here until you’re healed, okay, dipshit? That won’t get me sent back to hell, so I’m willing to do that.”

Gavin nods slowly. “Okay… Look, at least explain the Hell thing, I mean-”

“Nope! No more questions.” Geoff stands up abruptly, reaching for a little white device on the bedside table that’s linked up to Gavin’s IV and pressing a button on the side of it. Immediately, Gavin feels his body start to go limp, and his eyes begin to droop. “Go to sleep.”

“Wait- I- Geoff-” Gavin feels his body get heavy. “Kingpin-”

“Night, Golden Boy,” Geoff says, and then - just like that - Gavin is gone. 

* * *

“Michael- Michael, Michael, Michael, holy shit, Michael-”

Michael goes stiff in an instant, blood going cold. His phone feels hot against his ear and he holds it there with more force than is necessary. “Jeremy? What’s going on? Jeremy?”

There’s a sound like somebody shifting around on the other end, a rustle of fabric too close to the microphone, and somewhere in the distance, something crashes down and breaks like a bomb going off. Then there’s cursing, right up close to the phone - Jeremy - and then more shifting, more rapid, like somebody running. 

“Jeremy? C’mon, talk to me, buddy, what the hell’s going on-”

“Michael, run-” a sharp breath in, wheezing and breathless- “No matter where you are just run, okay, run, get away-”

Michael swears under his breath, glancing around. He’s in his garage on the other side of the city, surrounded by cars and bikes, which is a pretty good place to be if he needs to get away. He pushes the button to open the main doors and straddles one of his favourite bikes and slips in the comms Jeremy got for his birthday a few weeks ago, so he can still talk to him. Then he revs it up, fumbling with the keys, accelerating and roaring out of the main doors, not even bothering with a helmet, adrenaline starting to pump through him as sunlight streams through the opening doors and hits his face and his hair flies back-

And that’s when he sees them - two or three men in dark suits standing near an unmarked van a few hundred metres down the block. Michael does a u-turn and roars away from them, accelerating and accelerating down the road, skidding and dodging around cars, sun sharp in his eyes and on his skin. 

“Jeremy, where are you?!” he hollers, hoping the comms can pick it up over the roaring of the wind. “Jeremy, c’mon, tell me what the hell’s going on-”

“They’re here - Michael, they’re here-” Abrupt silence for a split second, then- “Shit! Shit shit shit!”

“What-”

There are gunshots on the other end, suddenly, far too close to the microphone, so loud that Michael veers to the side and collides with something, screeches against the side of a taxi, the scrape of metal jolting the bike and sending it spinning off-kilter. Michael risks a glance backwards as he dodges around cars - yep, the unmarked van is following, probably breaking almost as many traffic laws as  he is right now - and the terror seeps in, hot and thick, because  _ this might be it. _

“Jeremy? Please say you’re still there, holy shit-”

“I’m still-” More silence, then more running, and Michael turns a corner so fast he swears the bike almost flips sideways, and god he really wants to throw up right now- “I’m okay, I think I lost them, holy shit-”

“They’re still tailing me-” 

Michael takes another sharp turn, trying to throw them off by dodging down an alleyway that leads to an area he doesn’t know so well - at the moment, he doesn’t care. The van screeches around into the mouth of the alley behind him just as Michael turns the corner at the other end and speeds up a sidestreet, the few odd civilians parting like the red sea before him, diving out of the way as he roars past. At the end of the street, Michael abandons his bike and scrambles up the fire escape of a nearby building, throwing himself up onto the roof just as the van appears on the street and pressing himself as low as he can get, scrambling away from the edge and starting to crawl backwards from the edge.

“What’s going on over your end?” Jeremy asks, still breathing fast. “Holy shit. Okay, I think it’s alright over here, what about with you?”

“I’m- fuck, Jeremy, I’m fucked-” Michael reaches the other end of the roof and hears the doors of the van open on the street below.  _ “Fuck. _ Okay, I think I’ve got a plan-”

“Michael- I know that voice, don’t you dare do it, whatever it is, don’t do it-”

Michael reaches into his jacket for his pistol and kneels down, aiming at the place where the ladder opens out onto the roof. “I gotta.”

“For fuck’s sake-”

The nozzle of a gun - a rifle, maybe - peaks up over the edge, and Michael doesn’t even think before he fires. There’s a horrible crunch of metal and then a yell; the rifle flies back and the yell carries dowards, tailing off into a ragged grunt far below as the gunman falls. Then, Michael takes his chance, igniting his fingers and trailing them across the light concrete of the rooftop, praying this works. The rungs of the ladder clang far below and Michael swears out loud, knowing he’s running out of time- 

Just as a dark figure appears over the edge, the sound of a gun being cocked ringing out over the rooftop, Michael tears ass away, throwing himself over to the next rooftop along (for a moment, he’s suspended in space between the two, over a dark alleyway - then he hits feet-first) and runs and runs, sprinting until he reaches a fire escape a few rooftops away, bullets throwing up bits of concrete at his heels. Jeremy is yelling but Michael can’t make out his words as he clambers down the fire escape two rungs at a time, hitting the ground hard and rolling, stumbling to his feet, punch-drunk and jittery with adrenaline. 

The rest is a blur. Michael pulls his hood up and just  _ hauls ass, _ keeping to the shadows, sprinting until his legs ache. His brain is fuzzy and he can’t focus on anything - only the sound of his own pulse in his ears - and before he realises what’s happening, he’s collapsed, back hitting a cold, grimy wall in a little tucked-away alley. It’s dark in here, the sky only a slit in the buildings high above, and Michael hits the floor and can’t feel the sting that comes with the smashed glass covering the floor pushing into his legs and palms. Everything feels surreal. 

Slowly, Jeremy’s voice comes fading back in over the buzzing: “Michael? Talk to me, c’mon man, please talk to me, I’m fuckin’ freaking out over here-”

“I’m alright,” Michael says, and his voice sounds so ragged that it comes across as extremely not-alright. “I don’t know where I am- think I got away, though-”

“Are you hurt?” Jeremy asks.

“No- no, of course not-” Michael says, and then he looks down and almost faints because  _ wow, was that there a second ago? Fucking hell- _ “Okay, maybe, yeah, I am, holy shit-”

“Michael!”

But the world is already fading, and as Michael brings his hands up to press on the bullet wound - it’s slick with blood, soaked with it, almost more blood than should be possible - and tries desperately to remember how to breathe as everything starts to go grey. 

“C’mon, buddy, just stay with me-” Jeremy swears, sounding a bit hysterical. “If you die, you won’t have time to tell the GEB to go fuck themselves, so you can’t die yet- I’ll find you soon, I’m tracking your phone, just stay calm-”

“Already did,” Michael wheezes, “I drew a dick on the roof for them, Jer’my, you should have seen it, it was so goddamn cool, I bet they’re so pissed…”

“Damnitt, you beat me to it,” Jeremy jokes, voice shaking. “You do anything else to annoy them?”

“Oh, you got no idea…” Michael realises at this point that he’s slurring his words, badly, and that maybe, maybe, he won’t make it out of this one. “Fucking fuck, this hurts-”

“Just stay awake, alright?” Jeremy sounds almost pleading. “Please. If you die then I don’t know what the fuck to do, just stay awake, for fuck’s sake-” 

Let it be known that Michael tries. 

He doesn’t  _ want  _ to fall unconscious, seeing as that would probably spell almost certain death, but letting his head roll back feels like heaven - closing his eyes against the harsh light is close to involuntary at this point, and Jeremy’s voice goes all fuzzy and hard to focus on, and the roar of cars in the distance and the sounds of the city are strangely soothing, really. 

The world comes crashing in, like a tide, and Michael passes out. 

* * *

Everybody’s heard about it by now, and Jack knows what it means - it’s a sad but ultimate truth. One of them is down, and the rest of them are to follow.

She expects that she’ll be next. People are saying the Golden Boy managed to escape somehow, that the GEB didn’t actually manage to down him, but she seriously doubts that - it’s not easy to get away from them, not by any stretch of the imagination. Jack thinks she might have suspected that he’d be first. He was the weakest of them all, after all, and he was alone in a way that Mogar and Rimmy Tim weren’t. Nobody would dare to target Geoff, not with his power and influence, and Mogar and Rimmy Tim make a foreboding team, and the Vagabond is a shadow, impossible to track down, slipping through the fingers of the authorities like smoke. 

So yeah. Jack thinks she’s probably next up to the chopping block. 

And she’s not that worried, really. Sure, it’s not a great thing to have hanging over your head, but she’ll live. She always does. It might be hard to have to leave this city behind eventually, even if it’s in a body bag, but she refuses to run. Jack won’t leave this city, she’s decided, not until they kill her and then she comes back as somebody else, somebody new.  _ That  _ will be her new beginning. 

Until then, however, the waiting sucks. The city is alive with rumours - whispers of a new crew, or a mercenary group, or even the ludicrous story that the Golden Boy has a group of British mobsters after him from his home city. Nobody knows what’s going on. Geoff hasn’t called, and none of the rest of them have caused any shit since the Golden Boy went off the map, which was about a week ago now. There’s a strange silence between them, like the six of them should be meeting and talking and figuring out some kind of plan, conspiring under the noses of the authorities, the six who are always meant to know what’s going on.

But nobody does anything. Lying low in wait is the worst bit, really, knowing that another death is coming soon. But it’s the best they’ve got, after all, and Jack plans to stick to it. 

Until, that is, Geoff calls her. 

She picks up on the third ring, flicking on the safety on her pistol. “Hello?”

“Patillo…” Geoff sounds grim. “I need you to meet me at my base. Talk things out. There’ve been some new developments.”

“Are you talking about the Golden Boy?” Jack cuts in. “I knew about that. Everybody knows about that, Geoff.”

“Well, I’m sure you didn’t know about this. Look, just get here, alright?”

Jack bites her lip. “If this is a trap…”

“Patillo, we’ve known each other for fucking years-” Geoff cuts himself off. “Listen, this is important. The Golden Boy is alive and he’s with me, and he’s not the only thing I’ve got right now. And I need you to be here.”

Jack hears the uncertainty in Geoff’s words, the undertone that sounds almost, almost, like a plea, and sighs. 

“Alright, fine. I’ll be there in a few.”

Geoff hangs up without another word, and Jack is left standing there in the middle of the warehouse, phone in one hand and gun in the other, the first streaks of daylight filtering through the high windows, streaking through the dusty air. 

The journey to the Kingpin’s base doesn’t take long. Jack takes her bike, roars through the streets with the morning air fresh and biting in her lungs, dodging around cop cars and taxis and trucks and throwing up gravel behind her. The ride helps to clear her head, and she appreciates it because at the very least, now, she can think straight. 

If Geoff really does want to meet with her, and it’s concerning the Golden Boy, it’s almost certainly something to do with the GEB, as well as their group’s little arrangement. Some new development, Jack guesses - maybe Geoff’s finally considering getting out of here, or he’s got some information on them that could help the lot of them evade the GEB for just a little while longer, or maybe he’s even got the body of one of the others - Rimmy Tim or Mogar or the Vagabond - taken out without the knowledge of anybody else in the city. The thought makes Jack shiver. 

Finally arriving at the base is nerve-wracking. The hulking building seems twice as tall as usual, and as Jack pulls on her balaclava, scarf and gloves in the car down the street, she tries to resist the urge to shiver. Sunlight glints down at her from the windows of Geoff’s base, shimmering cold and harsh. 

“Here we go,” Jack mutters to herself as she walks through the main doors. As always, the receptionist looks up at her - then, checks something on her computer screen - then nods, gesturing her to the lift. The ride up is silent and smooth and foreboding. Jack fidgets, pulling her gloves tighter over her fingers, and prepares for what might be a fight when the doors open. 

When they do slide apart, however, the lounge area looks the same as it always does. The top of the liquor cabinet - which the Golden Boy always used to sit on - is as spotless as always, and the window frame which BrownMan always used to sit in overlooks the sun-bright city, waking up at the dawn of a new day, unaware of what’s going on right above it. This place looks just the same as always. 

Jack doesn’t let herself relax - not until Geoff appears, stumbling out of a door to the side that Jack has never seen used. He looks like hell (and that’s putting it nicely) in comparison to his usual spotless, intimidating mob-boss look. Wearing a graphic t-shirt with a band Jack’s never heard of, unshaven and even tireder than usual… well, Geoff certainly doesn’t look like he’s up for fighting Jack. He even seems surprised that she’s here in the first place. 

“You actually turned up,” he states. 

“Yeah. Now for the love of god, Geoff - explain what’s going on?”

“C’mon.” Heavy-voiced, Geoff gestures for Jack to follow him back through the door.

She does, though cautiously, and they both head up two flights of stairs - Jack counts the floors, just in case - before coming out onto a long, sunlit corridor. The walls are light and the windows span from floor to ceiling on one side, this place far more well-lit and less threatening than the meeting room down below. At the end of the corridor is a white door with a little window that reminds Jack of a hospital door. 

“Alright-” Geoff turns around to face her, coming to a stop. “Just- just be warned, he’s a tiny bit high on painkillers right now - I swear it makes his accent ten times stronger, seriously - and just…”

He trails off. There are a few seconds of awkward silence and Jack says, “Okay…”

With a sigh, Geoff turns away, and leads Jack the rest of the way up the corridor, reaching the door and pausing. He seems to think about something hard for a second, and then sighs, and pushes it open. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> please drop a comment if you've got time! <3

**Author's Note:**

> pls take the time to leave a comment!<3


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